Five Times Quirrell Needed Reassurance and One Time He Got it
by frecleface
Summary: Quirrell has lived all his life doubting himself and his own worth. But that doesn't mean he's worthless. If only he could just be convinced. / AVPM-canon Quirrellmort.


1.

He wakes up from a nightmare, absolutely terrified. Curling in on himself, he wants nothing more than for someone to hold him and tell him that everything is okay, that he doesn't have to be afraid, that they'll be there for him. He wants to get up and go to his parents' room, but he doesn't want to wake them. And either way, he's petrified with fear. He wants to call out to them, but his voice can't seem to work right. He wants either his mother or father to just sense that something is wrong, but that won't happen.

So he stays curled up in the dark, his mind telling him that the nightmare was real and that he has woken up to some kind of horribly wrong version of the world. He's certain of it now. If he gets out of bed, the shadows will come alive and grab him. The eerie fog outside the window will consume him. The darkness will swallow him whole and he will disappear.

He tries to shoo the thoughts away, but he doesn't know why it shouldn't be real. After all, there are all kinds of things in the magical world; who knows what could get him next? So he tightens his hold on the duvet and trembles, unsure if he can ever go to sleep again.

* * *

2.

It's just a matter of simple revision, that's all. It shouldn't be too difficult. But now, as it turns out, he can only find things wrong with his essay. A typo here, a grammar error there, and some of the words don't even make sense to him anymore. He's been staring at the word 'cauldron' for about ten minutes now, and he's still not sure if it's correctly spelled.

It's probably complete garbage. He can't write things down comprehensibly, it's just impossible. Wizard God, this is difficult. And it shouldn't even be; it's a simple Potions essay! How hard can it be? But no. He's caught in the vicious cycle of never being sure if he's good enough, but being too scared to try to get better.

He does finally manage to gather the courage to ask someone to proofread for him, but all they say is that it's 'really good, don't worry about it', and it's just not enough. He needs to know _why_ it's good, and _which parts_ are good, and if his writing will be good enough for the professor. So he asks someone else. They say he needs to work on his paragraphs. Of course. There had to be something.

But is it good enough? He doesn't know. And when the grade comes in a few weeks later, he's still not sure if it is.

* * *

3.

It's no longer just the inanimate things now. Sure, it used to be stuff like his papers, assignments, and projects, but now he's more focused on himself and what he does. He's always very aware of how flawed he is, and he wonders if it's as obvious as he feels it is. He lives for the moments when anyone other than his acquaintances tell him that he looks okay or that he's great to be around. And yet, it's become such a mantra for him that he's stopped believing it. Do they even mean it anymore? Are they just saying it to get him to shut up?

And what about all the times when he feels down? How much do they mean of what they say to him? They go on and on about how special he is and how he doesn't have to worry and how he's got people around him who care for him, but how much of that is true? Aren't they just saying it to get him to stop whining? They probably talk about it when he isn't present; about whiny Quirrell who should just man up and stop getting into their hair about it.

He really should, though. Because he knows that other people have it so much worse than he does. He knows of people with severe cases of depression, which he has read feels like being under a dementor attack all the time. He can't imagine how that must feel. And then there are the ones who are so deep that they go suicidal and hurt themselves. He doesn't want to think about what has happened to them to make them so sad.

In comparison, he shouldn't even bother mentioning his own anxieties. Because honestly, they're not worth it in the long run. They're so petty and small, and he looks like such an attention seeker when he keeps bringing them up. The ones who have it worse are good at hiding it, while he flaunts it all the time like a complete drama queen, practically begging for praise. It's insulting.

And yet, he needs it. He knows it's incredibly selfish to bring it up all the time. But he can't just say 'I need you to tell me that you like being around me and mean it'. That would drive everyone off for sure. He's just such a boring person to be around, and he knows it. So for someone to want to hang out with him, it feels very unreal. He just needs them to mean it when they say they like him.

* * *

4.

The fact that he can't even teach properly comes off as no surprise to him. His stutter makes it difficult for him to get the words out sometimes, and he feels absolutely awful having to stand in front of a chalkboard with dozens of eyes staring up and him and expecting him to be smart. Because he's not. How he even got a job as a teacher, he has no idea. Hell, he doesn't even know why he wanted to become one in the first place. He has nothing to add to the subject he's teaching, and the kids all look so bored in his classes. He hates it so much.

So for someone to actually compliment him after classes, saying that they found his lectures to be interesting, it comes off as mockery to him. Because he knows exactly what happens when the classroom door closes; he witnessed it when he was a student himself. After class, the students talk about the teacher and the class, most often on a negative note. He knows they talk about his stutter and his nervousness, and the fact that he's far too young to be in this position.

Even when his colleagues say he's doing a wonderful job, he finds it hard to believe. They keep talking about how the kids are actually learning something in his field now, unlike with his predecessor. That can't be true. Nobody really likes Muggle Studies, so how is it possible he's made any kind of change? It just doesn't make any sense. He's never had any significant effect or had any influence in anyone's lives, as far as he knows. So how can it be that a mumbling, stuttering, trembling whiner like himself could possibly have brought anything of substance to these kids?

Until someone tells him with the upmost sincerity that he has a reason and a point, and that what he does is worth it, he refuses to believe it.

* * *

5.

He curls up in his cell, feeling cold and drained and lifeless. He hates it. He hates it so much he just wishes one of the dementors would kiss him already. But it's not the cell he hates, and he doesn't even hold that much a grudge against the person who put him there anymore. More than anything, he hates himself for having believed a word that the man said. The fact that the guy is the Dark Lord should have tipped him off, really. It should have been obvious. Of course he would end up getting betrayed and blamed for the murder of a child (which, admittedly, he did commit, but under a command). He should have seen it coming.

So now, with all that in mind, he wonders how on earth he even ended up buying into everything his master said. The Dark Lord certainly is a good actor; Quirrell has to give him that, because otherwise it never would have worked. And he played his part very convincingly. To think that Quirrell actually bought into the whole 'friend' thing is just pathetic. Of course it didn't mean anything. Nothing did. Not the intimate conversations, not the nights out, not the full-body reunion; nothing. It had all been part of the Dark Lord's plan, and getting on Quirrell's good side was just a part of it.

But that's the worst. Not that the Dark Lord lied to him, but the fact that he believed it all without question. He's never been good at taking anything people say as a given, and always needs insane amounts of reassurance before he can start honestly thinking that a person values him. But this? It all just came so naturally that he didn't even think about it. It only lasted for half a semester, and yet he found it so easy to believe everything. Even the part where the Dark Lord said he'd grown attached to him. That should have made him suspicious. But it didn't. He believed everything.

Of course they were all lies. And the thought makes him sob harder than usual, though he tries to keep himself quiet. He hates this. He hates himself. Why won't someone just let him die so he doesn't have to think about it anymore?

* * *

1.

He feels unreasonably safe when they're like this. It doesn't have to be aftercuddles; just regular ones. But to be able to wrap himself completely around the person he loves, and have them hold him equally tight is so amazing that he doesn't know how to describe it. He marvels the fact that he of all people was lucky enough to be loved, and by someone whom he considered his very best friend. It's so terrific that he barely knows what to do with himself.

And yet, because of that, he sometimes feels like it's _too_ fantastic. Because what if it's just another trick? What if, one day, Voldemort walks out on him? Gets bored with him? Or worse, what if Voldemort still doesn't really care, and is just here because a part of him is still within Quirrell? He shudders at the thought of it, and unknowingly tightens his hold on Voldemort. Doubt and fear and dread wash over him, and before he knows it, he starts feeling numb and cold.

A hand suddenly starts caressing him soothingly, and he remembers that he's not alone anymore, unlike all those other times. Voldemort kisses his forehead, and soon Quirrell hears him speaking to him: "I love you," he says softly. "I am so in love with you, you have no idea."

_No, I don't_, Quirrell thinks.

"And you know that's something, coming from me," Voldemort continues, his hand now resting in Quirrell's hair and massaging his scalp. It's very comforting, all things considered. "But it's true. I didn't even understand what the stupid thing meant until I met you."

_That's why I'm worried_, Quirrell thinks, knowing that he should believe what he's being told, but the doubt it overwhelming him.

"Stop that," Voldemort suddenly says, and Quirrell's eyes shoot open when he remembers that the guy has an ability to get into your head. He feels unreasonably exposed. "I know it sounds unbelievably stupid, but you have to believe me when I say this." Voldemort shifts on the bed so that they are now facing each other, and gently brings a hand to Quirrell's face.

"I've lived all my life without anyone caring about me at all," he continues, "and I just got used to that, you know? Hating everybody and killing things and all that. See, that's kind of what makes a Dark Lord. All the tragic stuff." He smiles, softly running his thumb over Quirrell's cheekbone. "And then you had to come along and change all that. Made me do a complete one-eighty, just by being yourself. Not because you wanted to change me or anything, but just because you're you. Think about that, Quirrell. How many people can say that they made the Dark Lord soften? And love them, for that matter?"

Quirrell hesitates, looking down for a moment before replying. "Not many, I guess…"

"No one," Voldemort corrects, moving even closer to Quirrell, to the point where their legs are in a complete tangle. "And you did it with no effort. I admire you for that. For so many things. You're a brilliant guy, and you don't even know it. I hate that. I hate that you can't see what a… a beautiful person you are." Quirrell scoffs, which seems to take Voldemort by surprise. "You are, Quirrell. So beautiful, inside and out. And I feel so damn lucky to get to be with you."

That's a sentiment that Quirrell has thought too, and momentarily, he wonders if Voldemort is just responding to his thoughts. He then feels Voldemort's forehead pressed against his, and finally, he looks up, gazing into Voldemort's eyes.

"And I honestly don't know how else to tell you that and still convince you that it's the truth," he says. "But I can try." With that, he opens his mind for Quirrell, but because Quirrell isn't one to impose, he doesn't go in. He just observes. "Quirrell, I love you more than I can ever hope to say. You are the greatest, most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me, and I don't know where I'd be without you. And I say that completely disregarding the whole back-of-the-head part. You're smart, talented, considerate, loving, and absolutely incredible. And if I have to open my damn mind just to convince you of something you should already know, then I'm going to do just that. Every day. Every night, too, if I have to. Because I love you, Quirrell, and I hate seeing you putting yourself down like you're not worthy. Because you are."

_He means it_, Quirrell thinks as he gasps. He has never heard Voldemort – hell, anyone – speak to him so sincerely. He almost has a panic attack from that alone. There is also the fact that he didn't even have to go into Voldemort's head for the reassurance. Somehow, while he spoke, Quirrell felt his heart burst with emotion. It probably has everything to do with the part of Voldemort that's in there, and he's certain that it's reacting to what Voldemort is saying, affirming and agreeing with everything he's said so far.

Ultimately, Quirrell's emotions end up overwhelming him, and he softly weeps as Voldemort holds him close, his warm embrace only cementing the fact that everything he said came straight from the heart.

"I love you, Quirrell," he says again before planting another kiss on Quirrell's forehead. "I love you, I love you, I love you. And I'll keep telling you that for as long as I live, and I'll mean it every time Always." Voldemort emphasizes the last words by giving Quirrell a gentle kiss on the lips before looking at him with a warm smile.

And honestly, those words, that look; it's all the reassurance Quirrell has ever needed in his whole life.


End file.
